


The Things He Denies in the Daylight

by jojothecr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season 3, Written in 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojothecr/pseuds/jojothecr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 3; before <em>No Rest for the Wicked</em><br/><em>The nights are what makes them forget the ending of their story...</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things He Denies in the Daylight

Nearly an hour ago Dean was sitting at the edge of his bed, starring out the window and watching the dance of the raindrops beneath the flickering light of the streetlamp. His hands were folded in his lap; long fingers playing nervously with the single silver ring, while his mind was counting the sun rises he had left. His hair was wet from the nightmare, that won't just be a bad dream in a matter of one full moon, and tousled from the starchy pillow, soft spikes pointing into every direction.

Then the sleepless and desperate shadow behind him moved and wrapped its huge arms around his waist, distracting him of his thoughts and pulling him from the obscurity the night locked him into.

 

There's a storm outside; raging with all the energy it has been collecting through the whole day. The wind whistling around makes the window rattle. Empty cups of coffee and greasy papers from lunches are chased like feathers through the emptied streets. Raindrops bounce heavily against the window pane, pooling slowly at the wooden sill where the frame doesn't seal so well anymore.

 

Inside, no one cares about the weather.

 

Sam can't see his brother in the darkness. Only when the flash runs through the sky, lighting up for a split of second the whole room, does he see Dean's eyes - darkened and open like they never are in the day. Scared.

He can feel Dean's body beneath his fingertips, though. Firm and hard muscles, smooth and sporadically scarred skin, slick with cold sweat. He hears his ragged breathing, the soft moans escaping into the tiny space in between their lips. He feels Dean's blunt fingernails painting unreadable patterns into his back blindly. The tremble in his thighs as the pressure inside builds up slowly to the point where pleasure is melting into pain and nothing else seems to matter.

If Sam moves a little faster or rougher, causing Dean to hiss, it only helps them both realize that Dean is still there, still breathing. The moment sinks underneath Dean's skin and into his memory to remind him later, in the grasp of the eternal flame, what it felt like to be alive.

The storm breaks through and in between them; burning and chilling all the same, bringing temporary relief, bitter with the taste of guilt and shame.

Sam's name falls from Dean's lips with a strangled gasp. Like a charge for lost yesterdays, a prayer for another tomorrows. Then another lightning strikes and illuminates his face; the paths of tears the morning won't remember, the shadows of his long eyelashes that are falling upon his freckled and flushed cheeks.

That image pierces right into Sam's heart, like a needle creating a tattoo that will protect his mind from forgetting when the road gets lonely and dark.

The thunder that follows silences Sam's pained cry, helps hide the shudder that rushes through his whole body like sparkles. He leans in, claiming Dean's swollen and trembling lips in another soul-burning kiss that tastes of salt and fear, and pain of loss that is yet about to come.

 

They don't touch the same way in the morning. They don't kiss and they don't talk about any of that in the daylight.

The shirt that Sam wears covers equally the bruises on his back; the fingerprints on Dean's hips don't peer from behind the waistband of his worn jeans.

When the bathroom door bounces with the first sunrays, Sam knows it's not only the door, but also Dean who's closing up, shutting himself out. Leaving the nightmares behind and denying everything that's happened and what the faded walls won't talk about.

But Sam has learnt a long time ago that it isn't what Dean says, but what he doesn't, that's what matters. It's what Dean's fingers write into Sam's skin in the moonlight. What his lips draw onto his shoulder and what his eyes whisper into Sam's own.

The nights are what makes them forget the ending of their story. Forget that they are brothers. Forget it's a sin that keeps them going on and hunting evil. It's what keeps them from falling apart and breathing.

It's more than blood and brotherhood. It's a friendship of two soldiers on a battlefield when the night is heavy with smoke and spilled blood. Silent at last, after a very long time, but promising more and worse. Promising hell.


End file.
